A Curious Thing
by Egleriel
Summary: Prompt: "Power takes many forms." With the Battle for the Dawn won, both Sansa and Sandor are unsure of their place in the world. A one-shot take on the old 'Sansa gives the Hound a job at Winterfell' trope. Based on the show for a change, but nothing in here that conflicts with the books.


A/N: The prompt was "power takes many forms" and business school took over a little. Let's gets 'coercive' out of the way with a bit of scene-setting / world-building oui?

* * *

 **COERCIVE**

Definition: power which comes from the belief that a person can punish others for noncompliance.

* * *

 **1\. Prologue**

When the last of the Others was slain, and the last wight had been burned, Daenerys Stormborn spoke to her army from dragonback. The casualties were beyond counting: human and Other, men and women, Westerosi and easterner. Horses lay dead, and wolves, but no dragons. The three great drakes sat in formation; the Queen and her dragonriders, kissed by a wintry dawn that turned the cracks in the Wall to brilliant gold.

 _My brother wished to rule the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, but my people are of the Seven Kingdoms, and of King's Landing, and of Dorne, and of the far north; the proud lords of the Dothraki Sea, the free peoples of Dragon's Bay, and men and women everywhere who refuse to be bought and sold by evil men. I call upon all of you to pledge fealty to me, not as your queen, but as your empress..._

Lord Tyrion and Prince Quentyn, her fireriders, were the first to bend the knee. Her bloodriders followed. Every lord and lady, captain and commandant west of the Narrow Sea took their turn.

Away from the Dragon Queen herself, in the ranks, there were those who grumbled. Those who preferred the wildling way, or the Dothraki way, in which men chose the hero who would lead them. Those who remembered the Mad King, who had been comely and charming and capable in _his_ youth, too. Those who spoke of Old Valyria, and how it had not been a slave-empire in the beginning. There was something about the idea of 'empire' that always seemed to turn men into chattel, ere the end.

Still, such talk was quiet, and dissent was short-lived, for all knew that the first signs of rebellion would be met with fire and blood. Better to focus on the here-and-now; on a man's own life, own lord, and own king, before worrying about the designs of dragonlords.

* * *

 **LEGITIMATE**

Definition: power which comes from the belief that a person has the formal right to make demands, and to expect others to be compliant and obedient.

* * *

 **2\. Queen in the North**

The Queen in the North strode into Winterfell's Great Hall. Graceful, imperious, immaculate in heavy grey velvet, as she heard herself announced she could not deny that the title had a certain thrill to it. Sansa had always dreamt of being a queen, albeit in a very different time. She had always excelled in acting as a perfect lady, even after she came to understand of the cruelty and pretence of politics.

 _I will not make my father's mistakes_.

The title alone was not enough to keep her safe. Cersei and Petyr had taught Sansa that much, at least. There was a game to be played. A young girl, unschooled in the exercise of power, would be seen as a soft target – or simply a pawn. They had taught her that, too.

 _He wanted to wed me to someone brave, and gentle, and strong. I can be all of those things myself._

And so now Sansa was learning how to be a _lord_. Needlework and dancing were of little relevance when she heard court - Robb was the one Father had taught to rule a realm. Ned Stark could not have known that queens would soon rule at the Wall, at Winterfell, at Pyke and at Sunspear, all under a Dragon Empress who sat the Iron Throne. Ned Stark could not have imagined Robb dead, Rickon dead, and Bran... well, 'gone' was the easiest way of putting it.

Thankfully, her short reign had remained straightforward. With help from Willas Tyrell, the King-in-the-South, Winterfell was provisioned until the glass gardens started yielding. Visitors came and went. The most common sort were fighters who'd been wounded in the Battle for the Dawn and spent the moons since recovering at Castle Black. Not all could afford the sea-passage south. Most they stayed for only a day or two as the weather permitted, but others were content to see out the winter there. It humbled Sansa to realise just how great Jon's war had been. That these men and women in their hundreds and thousands, had risked their lives for hers, then slept beneath her roof, and then passed from her awareness altogether...

Yet somehow, it was more shocking still whenever she recognised a weary traveller from another life.

* * *

 **REFERENT**

Definition: power which is the result of a person's perceived attractiveness, worthiness and right to others' respect.

* * *

 **3\. Pretty Bird**

They arrived as Sansa finished settling a marriage contract between two minor bannermen, else the castellan would have received them instead. Servants milled about, setting the hall for dinner, clattering trenchers on tables without a glance for the three newest visitors.

"Where do you intend to go, now that the war is over?" asked Sansa.

"I will go wherever there are smallfolk in need of the Lord," said the bald priest. "Although, it is fair to say that we are united by our direction, not our purpose."

"You needn't worry," grumbled the tallest man. "My face won't be spoiling your view past tomorrow."

The girl-queen fixed him with impassive stare. "You don't frighten me, Sandor Clegane."

"I frightened you as a girl," he shot back.

"Do I look like a girl to you?"

"No. You look like a queen."

The man-at-arms spoke plainly, lacking the bitterness and anger she remembered. _I have enough bitterness and anger of my own now_.

"The three of _you_ look like men who need rest from the road. Stay as long as you wish. Quarters will be found while you eat with us."

He hadn't lied: she _did_ look like a queen. A slender circlet of black iron rested in her dark auburn hair. She'd got back the proud bearing she brought to King's Landing all those years ago, and her face was longer, less childlike. Sansa Stark had turned into the grand beauty she'd always promised to be, the fair face of a Tully and the fair mind of a Stark, from what he'd heard at the Wall. The combination was… quite arresting, in truth.

 _She's always affected you, though,_ some treacherous part of his brain reminded him.

One night became seven as the weather kept them within the walls. Gendry's helping hand in the smithy quickly earned him a job offer, but by the moon's turn Thoros decided he'd burned his last nightfire. Refusing to explain his reasons, particularly to himself, Sandor did not leave with him.

* * *

 **EXPERT**

Definition: power based on a person's high levels of skill and knowledge

* * *

 **4\. Captain of the Guard**

Winterfell cared for any who arrived in need, but the able were expected to earn their keep. It was easy for Gendry: he was not born to the life of a hedge knight and needed no encouragement to hang up his spurs. For Sandor, it was less clear. Winterfell was replete with veterans maintaining order, and the only noble that needed protecting had Brienne of Tarth at her shoulder.

"A master-at-arms is our sorest need," the castellan persisted. He looked no older than Sandor. "Your experience would be squandered anywhere else."

"I haven't the patience," Sandor growled.

"He doesn't," agreed a new voice behind him. "You may go, Harwin."

Every muscle stilled. It'd been long since he was last alone with Sansa Stark.

"There is another post, were you willing. A Captain of the Guard, in theory, but in truth what I need most is an advisor on military matters. Obviously, it must be someone I can _trust_."

"And you trust me, do you?" he rasped drily, searching for the mockery.

"As far as I trust anyone, yes."

"Why?" he spat, but she didn't rise to the bait. It unsettled him to have her eyes on him, unwavering, that pretty face inscrutable. "Why would you trust _me_?"

"I told you once before," she explained simply; "I know you won't hurt me."

"War can change men, little bird," he warned, though _that_ truth hadn't changed at all.

"It changes women, too," she said sharply. "I've learned what it is to be hurt - truly _damaged_ \- by men. The sort who make Joffrey look the height of chivalry."

"No gallant knights around to save you?" he asked sadly. Only the fists clenched at his sides hinted at the rage that flared in him.

She laughed bitterly, an unwelcome sound. "Any decent man would have sufficed. It took a long time to find one, let alone persuade him."

The Hound had no answer to that, and let Sansa fill the silence this time.

"You would have a seat on my Small Council, such as it is: a lord's station. Above all you would have respect. No one would ever be permitted to call you 'dog' again," she added, with a fierceness that surprised him. "Whatever it is you did during the war would be forgiven. And… I think you could be happy in the North, from what Arya tells me."

"What has Arya told you?" he whispered hoarsely. There was a coyness to that last part that froze his blood.

"That you saved her life, many times over, and she trusts you too," said Sansa, smiling faintly. "That you still hate knights, and the Faith, and politics, and _liars_. All rarer in the North than you may be used to."

Swallowing hard, the Hound finally lifted his gaze from the floor. "In that case... I would serve you gladly."

* * *

 **REWARD**

Definition: power which results from one person's ability to compensate another for compliance.

* * *

 **5\. Dog**

"King Edmure is our staunchest ally-"

"Let's think about _our allies_. The Queen's cousin rules the Vale. Her uncle is the River-king. Her former husband is King-on-the-Rock. Her brother would be King-on-the-Wall if he wasn't too busy ruling the fucking empire. The Queen has powerful allies on all sides. What happens to the North if we lose the Queen? If Robert Arryn shakes himself to death some morning, or Tyrion Lannister makes common cause with the Greyjoys? Seven hells, Edmure Tully is so unlucky he could topple his own house just eating his breakfast. You know what's better than strong allies, my lord? _Being strong._ "

"This sounds expensive," grumbled Wylis Manderly.

Sandor knew he stuck out like a sore thumb in this company. He was no master strategist, but it was basic legwork she needed from him, and if it came to battle the lords would be leading their own men in the field.

He'd stood sentry at enough Small Council meetings to know that Sansa's style of ruling was sensible. There were whispers at court – mostly originating from Barbrey Dustin – that the young queen was weak, easily led, but Sandor knew the difference between taking advice and losing control. The meetings took place at every new moon, and also served to help Sansa understand the mood of her lords and subjects in every corner of the north.

"Sandor, do you have a moment to walk with me?"

He bowed his head in acquiescence and waited by the door. His stomach twisted horribly as he tried to work out what he might have said to deserve a dressing-down.

 _Or maybe she's finally seen sense. It's as well I never unpacked properly._

"You made your points well today," she remarked lightly, leading him into the gallery. The covered walkway passed the little sept as it crossed from the hall to the main keep. "The lords will need some persuasion if they are to man the beacon towers, but we will start garrisoning Moat Cailin by ourselves. What do we need to put at your disposal?"

Surprised, he talked her through the numbers and estimates, suggested crew rotation periods and incentives. It didn't take a maester to understand the steps; the girl just didn't know where to start.

A long curved stair took them up to the upper floor of the Great Keep, then she stepped through the wicket gate onto the bridge above the training yard.

"You made Brienne master-at-arms," he observed.

"Only for the pages and younger squires." Sansa flicked a sidelong glance at him. "I hear they call her Nursemaid."

Sandor snorted. "Not to her face, they won't."

"If they do, I doubt there's a second occasion," she smirked, as Brienne put a particularly confident attacker on his back with a savage block and a well-placed shoulder. The girl folded her arms across the railing, breath misting; if the chill bothered her, she gave no sign.

"Are you sure this doesn't bore you?" the girl asked. "Managing guardsmen, handling supplies and so on?"

"It isn't difficult. I like that I don't have to kill anyone." It had never occurred to him to be bored, but that didn't seem a sufficiently positive conclusion. "I am… grateful for the opportunity."

"What made you decide to stay?"

He thought carefully about how to answer, and he turned his back, gazing out over the courtyard.

Sandor Clegane drank in the sounds of the living, working Winterfell. The regular _ting_ of hammering echoed over from the smithy. A flight of birds scattered into the air above the guests' hall, disturbing a shelf of snow that fell into godswood with a _flump_. A servant, well-wrapped against the cold, carried a heavy basket from the direction of the kitchens that steamed despite its covering. Closer by, the graceless footfalls and thudding blows of novices at training. And closest of all - barely perceptible despite the surge of adrenaline heightening his awareness - the little bird's breathing, and his own.

 _Idiocy_.

"There's nowhere down south that will be missing me."

 _Vanity._

"And you seemed to have a place for me."

 _Delusion, even_.

"I'll always be a fighter, but it might be that there's not as much fighting to be done in the time ahead. These days men are trying harder to hide what bastards they are."

 _Especially me._

One corner of the little bird's mouth twitched. "So you'd like to find out if there's anything else that you can be good at. Make some fairer memories."

He gave a curt nod. "Aye, that's a prettier way to put it."

"It's no easy thing. The skills you grow up with are the only ones you know how to measure."

"True."

Sandor _had_ a measure, though. As a boy he'd listened for Ser Benedict's praise in the yard; in combat he counted the openings he created; and in the council-chamber, his worth was written on the Queen's face. Approval or doubt - victory or defeat - his performance was reported in the merest flicker of those summer-blue eyes. Whether his insights were the soundest, he had no idea, but they were the best he had to give.

 _Fool_.

"Still. I am glad to serve as long as it pleases you," he said honestly.

And somehow, there it was again. Whatever he had said - or possibly not said -it was to her liking. There was a flash of warmth in Sansa's eyes a moment before she began to smile.

"That is good to hear. Winterfell needs good men, Sandor Clegane. What would _please_ me now is if you made yourself at home in your quarters. If you are concerned with the long-term safety of the realm, it would be helpful to know you aren't going to run off at any moment. You needn't look so shocked, my lord. Winterfell is a lot smaller than King's Landing; I can be my own Master of Whispers."

She looked triumphant, seeing him so wrong-footed. Before he could react, she bobbed onto tiptoe and brushed her lips against his scarred cheek, then swept off towards the godswood.

No, there was only one word that could accurately describe his place at Winterfell, he realised. And it was a name he'd been called before.


End file.
